


Níreiva

by AustralianRanger012



Series: Mercy-Verse [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:16:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustralianRanger012/pseuds/AustralianRanger012
Summary: “As the Noldor listened to the Curse of Mandos, they saw a dark figure. What they never saw was the tears.” Námo’s thoughts on having to pronounce his Doom to the Noldor leaving Aman, and Vairë's sorrow at having to record these events. Mercy-Verse, but is Silmarillion compliant.





	1. Námo

**Disclaimer: All recognisable characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.**

* * *

Inspired by an image of Námo by pyritewolf on DeviantArt <https://www.deviantart.com/pyritewolf/art/Namo-487249203>, and the caption that goes with it.

"As the Noldor listened to the Curse of Mandos, they saw a dark figure. What they never saw was the tears."

* * *

**Níreiva** \- tears

**...**

Námo wept.

Watching the elves ignore his warning of the Doom that would befall them if they continued down this path, filled him with a great sorrow. Watching them march past him without a care was even worse. Fëanáro's fine sounding words had blinded them to all but the desire to leave Valinor, to go build great kingdoms in Endórë. Nothing anyone said was about to stop them.

Little did they know the kingdoms those who survived the journey would build would ultimately be as dust, crumbling away over time. They themselves would be besieged with strife, grief and suffering at every turn, no matter what they did. Living in the bliss and safety of the Blessed Realm for so long had made them ill-prepared for what they would face in the Outer Lands. Oh, their glory there would be great, that was for sure. But, it would also be short-lived, and ultimately futile.

Fëanáro, in his short-sighted arrogance, thought their deeds would be remembered until the end of days. He little realised there would be few left alive to remember anything. Námo knew his Halls would fill with exiled Noldor fëar before too many more years passed; had already foreseen Fëanáro himself would be among the first to come to him.

Firstborn son of the first king of the Noldor. First to listen to Melkor's lies. First to draw steel against another. First to rebel against the Valar. First to leave Valinor, and first to return to the very place and people he'd scorned via the Halls of Mandos.

Yet, he would also be the last to leave Mandos, and not until the remaking of the world. Námo had seen but glimpses of this event. But, he knew Fëanáro's desire to rid himself of the Valar, and the authority Eru had invested in them, would only lead to his fëa spending countless Ages dwelling in the very Halls of those whom he despised.

As much as looking after the thankless elf's fëa for all the Ages of Arda was not appealing, it was the will of Eru, the price Fëanáro would pay for his actions. Námo would not gainsay it.

The tears still fell, but Námo was somewhat comforted by the fact a scant few heeded his warning (for a warning it was, given out of love for those who were lost to the darkness of Melkor's hatred and lies), and turned back. Prince Arafinwë and many of his followers, after hearing the Doom, forsook the march, retracing their steps back to Tirion. At least his decision meant the Noldor whom hadn't been caught up in this madness of Fëanáro's would still have a King to lead and guide them in Aman.

One whose heart and fëa had not been seduced to believing the lies of the Valar's fallen brother.

Námo continued staring down dispassionately on those trudging past, even as he felt his heart breaking. The sight of many elleth, and even a few tiny elflings, with the departing Noldor caused fresh tears to leak out of the Doomsman of Arda's eyes. Those innocent children would suffer the most in this; their delicate fëar would be forever marred by what they would see and experience.

By what they had already seen and experienced. The horrifying events at Alqualondë would not be soon forgotten by any.

As he thought that, one little elleth (who couldn't have been older than half a year) passed by him, held securely in her mother's arms. The little one looked up at him with curiosity. Though she was way too young to understand what was happening, a hint of worry and confusion was evident in her clear grey eyes. Seeing a vision of that same elfling, barely bigger than she was now, coming to his Halls alone, in pain and fear, caused the tears to start anew.

Not that any of the Elder saw them.

As he watched the last of the Noldor host who would ignore his warning pass him, disappearing around the headland, Námo wept inconsolably. His tears finally being spent, he spoke in a broken voice that was barely above a whisper.

"Oh Fëanáro. Child of Eru, what hath thou done?"

* * *

_Half a Valinor year old means the child would be about 4-5 solar years._

* * *

**A/N** The Sequel to Óravassë, Redemption Chronicles, is coming, I promise. It is about half written at this point, and we already have over 40 chapters. Plot Bunnies are really having a festival with this one, when they are around at least. I am actually thinking of splitting the story into multiple parts, due to the length it is going to be by the end.

Also, there will be a Part 2 to this story, about Vairë having to record the events of the First Kinslaying. Poor Vairë. Poor Námo. Their jobs are not easy.

Reviews are appreciated, and may help fuel Plot Bunny to hurry up and finish writing Redemption...


	2. Chapter 2

Tears stained Vairë’s cheeks as surely as elven blood stained the once pristine shores of the Blessed Realm. The Valië wept inconsolably as the latest tapestry rapidly took shape under her skilful hands.

There was so much red thread. Vairë wished she could use less of it, but she had no choice but to record what happened. That was the purpose for which _Atar_ had created her. And the shores of Alqualondë had been painted red with the blood of both the Teleri and Noldor. Both sides brutally slaughtered for what purpose? None, but the fact Fëanáro wanted to get to Endórë.

The sheer senselessness of the brutal violence that had been enacted on their shores caused more tears to stream out of Vairë’s eyes, even as her hands did not stop, nor even slow, their work.

She was given one job in Arda; to record all the events that transpired there.

All of them.

No matter how horrific and awful those events turned out to be. Though Vairë had never had to weave anything this awful before. As the red thread took on a life of its own under her hands, seeming to ebb and flow around like the life-force it was, the Valië wept even harder.

She had sent all her Maiar away as soon as this had happened, not wanting them to have to experience this. She was so upset, she didn’t even realise she was no longer alone until strong arms wrapped around her shoulders. Námo gently kissed her head as the Valië melted back into her husband’s embrace with a broken sob. It was a while before either of them spoke; Vairë was the first to break the silence.

“Did you know this would happen?”

Námo’s voice was full of pain.

“No.”

The Doomsman was staring transfixed at the tapestry; Vairë couldn’t be sure if the red thread was really moving, or if it was the tears still spilling out of her eyes that made it seem like it was. Closing them in despair and pain, suddenly not able to handle the brutality she was weaving anymore, the Valië buried her head in Námo’s chest and cried. Námo remained silent, but his own silent tears fell on her hair as he hugged her close. They stayed like that for a long time, finding comfort in each other, as the world seemed to fall apart around them. Tears spent, Vairë finally spoke, her voice rough and barely above a whisper.

“What will happen to them now?”

“The Noldor whom rebelled and slayed their kin are forever exiled from the Blessed Realm; a great Doom now lies on them, and all whom associate with them. Some headed my warning and turned back, Prince Arafinwë among them, so he will doubtlessly become the new King of the Noldor here in Aman. And as for those whom left…my Halls will become very full of elven fëar before too many more years pass. We will not help them with what they encounter on Endórë; that was made clear. They are on their own now.”

Vairë snuggled into her husband, feeling exhausted and broken-spirited.

“How did it come to this?”

Námo closed his eyes in pain. His voice was hoarse.

“I don’t know.”

Vairë sniffed.

“What does Manwë think?”

“He’s the one whom ordered me to pronounce the Doom to them.”

“And Melkor?”

Námo’s voice was uncharacteristically bitter.

“He remains free on Endórë.”

Vairë was silent for a time.

“That doesn’t seem right; that he should get away with all the harm he’s done.”

“No. But that was Manwë’s decree.”

Vairë said no more, snuggling deeper into Námo. Gently kissing the top of her head, the Doomsman spoke softly.

“I think some rest would do us both good. The tapestry can wait for now.” He added as Vairë started protesting. “You’ll have plenty of time to finish it later. I fear there will be others like it in the near future, so we’d best get some rest while we can.”

Vairë felt dread pool in her stomach. “More like it? What have you seen?”

Námo’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, made even more alarming by the fact he was naturally very soft-spoken.

“Pain and fear and blood. So much blood; all innocent. That Oath will destroy more than Fëanáro and his sons. But that is what must happen now.”

Vairë reach out to grasp his hand, bowing her head as she did so.

“May _Atar’s_ will be done. And, may he grant us the strength to see it through.”


End file.
